


Two Hearts, One Promise.

by bombhumpa



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, At least I think it counts as fluff, Big Brother Mycroft, Definitely feels, Doctor John Watson, Drug Use, First Meetings, Fluff, I'm Bad At Tagging, John's Jumpers, Johnlock - Freeform, Johnlock Feels, Johnlock Fluff, Johnlock friendship, Maybe feels, Minor unilock, More Feels, Multi, Sherlock Holmes and Drug Use, Sherlock Makes Deductions, Sherlock eats cereal, Sherlock solves cases, Sherlock wants to become a pirate, Teenlock, and also carbonara, mystrade
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-20
Updated: 2014-09-20
Packaged: 2018-02-09 16:32:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1989927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bombhumpa/pseuds/bombhumpa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if John and Sherlock met when they were youths, but then they were teared apart until years later, when the universe decided to let them meet again? How is thas going to turn their lives around?</p><p>We will follow their story from the day they meet and all to the end.</p><p>(Rated M because better safe than sorry.)<br/>Read and Review!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. We know full well there's just time...

It was a sunny afternoon, and thirteen year old Sherlock Holmes sat alone on a swing at the playground and kicked the white sand below it with his feet. He was bleeding from his nose, but did nothing to prevent the bloodflow.  
 The older boys -and girls- at his school loved to harass him. To tease him, beat him and destroy every single thing that belonged to him. He didn't have a single friend, just because he was a freak. At least that was what they called him. A freak. He wasn't a freak, was he? Just because he was smart and clever. His brother was even smarter than him, and he wasn't a freak. But then again, everyone called him that, and for every day that went, he believed it a little bit more than the previous.  
 They'd damaged his books by tearing the pages out. They had ripped his beloved scarf in pieces with the words 'seems like the freak is gay' and a cold laughter.  
 He knew he should tell someone about it, but he also knew that it wouldn't help. It would just lead to a meeting, full of false apologies from his harassers and full of false compassion from the adults. After that it would be one week, just one week of silence from them. Then it'd just start all over again.  
 Even though it was spring he wrapped his long coat tighter around him. He already missed his scarf.  
 His nose was still bleeding.

-–-–-

Sixteen year old John Watson was on his way home from school when he saw the lonely figure on the swing.  
 It wasn't the first time John had seen him there. He didn't know much about the younger boy apart from that they went to the same school and that he was very intelligent. Every day on his way home from school John saw the dark haired boy sitting there. He'd always supposed he was skipping school or just didn't do anything on his leisure time.  
 He'd never payed any closer attention to him, and he wasn't going to do it that day either. The boy had never payed any attention to him, so why would he?

 John continued his walk home.

-–-–-

The things they did to him, they had gotten worse. One day when a lesson had ben over, they'd dragged him away and cut his hair off. His dark curls, they were gone. The teachers at his school was good at teaching, but nothing else. They teached and drank their beloved coffee. They saw anything of what happened outside their classrooms. They were blind. Blind to the truth. Every time Sherlock saw his reflection he would timid, not recognise himself. He felt naked.  
 He'd stopped going to school because of what they had done to him.  
 He spent the whole day –like he had the done the latest of days– on his swing, just sitting there and kicking the sand under it. In some way it felt good. It was drizzling ,but he didn't care. That was when he heard the familiar voices, the voices he hated and feared so much. He became paralysed.

Fifteen minutes later he was lying in the sand, all naked except for his underwear. They had been five. Five boys, all of them older and stronger than him. Two of them had held him so he hadn't been able to escape, while the other three had taken turns beating him up. He'd almost lost consciousness. That was when they stripped him off of all his clothes, just to rip them apart. Then they'd left him in the there, face down, in the sand.  
 His whole body was bruised. He couldn't move, it hurt to much. One single thought ran through his head, over and over again. 'It's now I'm going to die.'  
 The rain was pouring now.

-–-–-

John didn't like the rain. He'd never liked it. He hated how it made him cold, how it would make his clothes heavy and how it made the sight worse. When he was passing the playground he already was soaked to the bone like a drowned cat. That was when he stopped. He didn't know why, but something felt wrong. Maybe it was a sixth sense, or maybe it just was a coincidence.  
'The boy, why isn't he here?' he briefly thought before he saw him lying under the swing he usually sat on. John quickly walked towards the boy, seeing the bruises on his back. He was breathing, but barely.   
 He didn't know anything about the boy, but understood that he'd been harassed. He quickly took his jacket off and covered the boy with it before picking him up, deciding that he was taking him home to his place to get him dry clothes.  
 'Maybe I should bring him to his parents', he briefly thought, but then again, he didn't know who they were or where they lived.

**That was the first time John met Sherlock.**

-–-–-

When Sherlock woke up, the first thing that came to his mind was how much his body hurt. The second thing was what had happened. The third thing that he wasn't at the playground where they'd left him, nor at home. The fourth thing was that he was dry and warm. Hadn't it been raining?  
 He closed his eyes and opened them again, now taking in the room he was in. He seemed to be lying on a sofa, with a jumper that was a bit too small –but very soft- on. He also had a grey blanket over him.  
He tried to sit up, but couldn't. It hurt to much. He made a pained sound down his throat and tried again, this time he managed to, although it hurt like hell.  
 That was when he heard soft footsteps, and moments later a boy –he believed two or three years older than himself– entered the room, smiling kindly at Sherlock. The dark haired boy immediately understood that this was someone he could trust.  
"Hello", the other boy said while putting a cup of tea on the small table at the sofa. "I'm John."

**That was the first time Sherlock met John.**


	2. ...so is it wrong to toss this line?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock's relationship develops a lot more.  
> Promises are made and also there's another first.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A new chapter, yay!  
> Should've published it earlier, but due to personal reasons (like summer break, friends and my grandmother's funeral) I just haven't.
> 
> This chapter is a bit longer than the previous, but it may be a bit long. I don't know..  
> Read and Review!  
> Enjoy!

John sat down in the brown sofa beside Sherlock. Not too close -he didn't want to make him uncomfortable or scare him- but neither with too much space between them. He wasn't sure if he should say something or not.  
 The room wasn't big, but it couldn't be called small either. There was a big window behind the sofa, facing the small road outside. A smaller table of glass served as coffee table. The fireplace in the corner wasn't lit.  
 Silently he looked at the other boy's face. The tumescence he had wasn't as bad as it had been when John had brought him inside.  
 Eventually John cleared his throat. "It's Earl Grey. The tea, if you want some. It would make you good." He smiled briefly. The other boy didn't reply. He just took the blue, steaming cup between his pale hands and held it tightly while sipping the tea John had brought. After a while John decided to try making conversation with the boy.  
 "Is the tea good?" he asked. It was an easy question, and the other boy could choose whether he wanted to answer shortly or with a longer answer that would invite to conversation.  
 After a while the boy -whom John didn't know the name of yet- replied.  
 "It's good", he said shortly. "I'm Sherlock. If you're wondering, which I know you do." Sherlock took another sip of the Earl Grey.  
 John was happy. The boy -Sherlock- had answered him. He watched as Sherlock put the half empty cup down on the table. Then he just looked at John, his eyes -green and blue and golden- met the blond's gaze. "Thank you."

**That was the first time Sherlock ever said thank you to another boy.**

-–-–-

Sherlock was lying in his bed, looking up at the dark ceiling. His back still ached, but it wasn't more than that. The boy -John- had insisted on checking his wounds with the words 'I don't want them infected'. Sherlock had let him.  
 The grey jumper John had borrowed him was slung over the back of the chair in front of his desk. He'd insisted Sherlock on keeping it, with the words 'I have others. You can give it back tomorrow'. Sherlock was thankful.  
 Although he wasn't tired he closed his eyes, going through what had happened during the day. He needed to sort, store and in some cases delete.

-–-–-

Two blocks away John was getting ready to go to bed, thinking about the day and its very unexpected turns. He and Sherlock had exchanged a few sentences before he'd insisted that the wounds Sherlock had got needed to be checked. Although the boy had said that it wasn't  necessary he'd gotten his will through.  
 John wanted to become a doctor, so he knew a lot in the medical area.  
 After he'd made sure nothing was badly damaged or anything was going to get infected they'd sat down in the sofa again.  
 "So.." John had cleant his throat a bit before continuing. "Are you coming to school tomorrow?"   
 Sherlock hadn't answered.  
 John had persuaded Sherlock to go. After all he had to. 'I'll be with you', he'd promised the boy.  
 After that he'd insisted on following Sherlock home, which he'd done. Partly because he wanted to know where his new friend -because he was a friend now, right?- lived, and partly because he wanted to make sure he came home safely.  
 John checked his alarm and closed his eyes, immediately drifting off to sleep.

-–-–-

 Sherlock was finally becoming tired. He yawned loudly and thought of the promise John had made. In some way it made him feel better.  
 Was John his friend now? Sherlock didn't have friends, he was sure of that. At least he'd been, until today. Maybe one friend wasn't that bad. John was definitely his friend. He yawned and decided to sleep.

-–-–-

A tired John Watson was patiently waiting for Sherlock to arrive to the meeting spot they'd decided yesterday. He was early, ten minutes earlier than they'd decided, but 'better be early than late' was the words he'd repeated since he'd left home.  
 Finally, ten minutes later -exactly- the other boy arrived. John saw him pull a hand through his short hair, obviously uncomfortable with the lenght of it. The boy was wearing John's jumper, the grey one he'd given to him the previous day.   
 John greeted Sherlock with a smile. Sherlock didn't smile back, but his eyes were alert and seemed to scan everything around them, like he was looking for something. The walk to their school was silent, except from a few sentences John said, like; 'its beautiful weather today' (it was sunshine, although it was a bit cold) or 'look, there's a squirrel'.  
 They arrived to the school and parted ways without exchanging something else than a gaze with the words 'I'll see you'. John went to his classroom, and Sherlock to his.  
 John silently told himself to have an eye at the younger boy, at least during the breaks.

-–-–-

The first lesson was great. It was chemistry, and Sherlock loved chemistry. He'd actually missed it, and since no one bothered him it was pretty amazing.  
 The second lesson was good. It was math. He heard people talk about him, mean words. He didn't care.  
 The third lesson was okay, it was physics. They'd started to throw small balls of paper at him. The teacher didn't tell them to stop, nor did Sherlock.  
 The lunch break was a nightmare. It had started out good, he'd sitten in his usual corner picking in his food. He didn't see John in the room, and although he knew the blond had lunch later than him, he constantly looked up to see if he were there.  
 "Hey, freak!" A boy from his grade threw an apple at him. Sherlock didn't look up, he didn't care about what they did. Maybe he was a freak? Maybe he deserved it. He continued picking in his food. "Look at me if I'm speaking to you!" Another apple hit him, this time it hit his shoulder. Sherlock grimaced a little when it did. He still wasn't looking at the boy and his friends. Instead he stood up and grabbed his tray, leaving his table to get out of the dining room. It was then someone pushed him, making him fall to the floor. Thankfully he didn't fall on the tray of his, but that was as lucky as he was.  
 The boys quickly gathered around him, forming a circle. "So, what have we got here?" The leader of the gang spitefully grinned down at him. "Back in school, eh?" He looked at his friends who were laughing. They were all looking down at the boy on the floor, silently exchanging looks with each other. After a few seconds another boy spoke.  
 "We'll be kind today. Don't worry." And with that the five boys gave him a hard kick each, every single one of them in a different place then the previous. All of them were strategically placed. Then they left him on the floor, bruised but not bleeding, knowing none of the adults at the school was going to notice it.  
 Sherlock grunted and got up, supporting himself against the nearest table. Only because of his strong will he made it outside the school, wanting to go home, but he didn't have the strange to. He tried a few steps, but immediately stopped, feeling to dizzy and to beaten up. Silently cursing he sat down on the asphalt, just wanting to disappear.  
 He promised himself to never go to school again.

-–-–-

John was on his way to the dining room when he saw Sherlock stumble out of the building. He wanted to go after him immediately.  
 "I don't feel good", he told his friends. "I'm going home, I've got a headache." He smoothly lied to his friends, but when he turned around again the dark haired boy was gone. John supposed he'd left the school, and when he got outside he found his supposing had been very right.  
 The doctor inside him quickly noticed that he had fresh bruises in his face. He also saw how painful it was for him to sit down on the hard ground.  
 "Sherlock?" His voice was soft, not wanting to scare the boy. "It's alright." He bent down beside him and looked into his pained eyes. "Do you want me to follow you home?"  
 The younger boy's eyes started to fill with tears. He nodded, but then shook his head. John was confused.   
 "Can I come to you? I don't want to go home like this." His voice was very small, but steady.  
 John's heart melted a little when he saw how terrible the boy was feeling. "Of course." He spoke as softly as before.  
 He helped Sherlock up, and then walked beside him all the way to his house, supporting him when he needed it. He unlocked the door and stepped inside, closing the door after the boy who had kicked his shoes off as soon as he'd came inside.  
 "John, I'm feeling dizzy." Sherlock took support against the wall. "It is like everything's moving."   
 The older boy grabbed Sherlock's arm, helping him into his room and lying down on the bed. "Is that okay?" John asked him. "The sofa's too far away if I want to do my homework and still be able to see you." Sherlock gave him a brief nod and closed his eyes.  
 John got his book from his bag and sat down at his desk, trying to study som chemistry. Now and then he glanced over at the boy in his bed. He wasn't able to determine if he was asleep or not, even though it didn't matter.  
 Half an hour later he opened the window, letting fresh air enter the room. Whilst he did so, Sherlock stirred awake from a very light sleep, sitting up on the bed, looking out through the open window.   
 John noticed his movements and turned a bit on his chair so he could see the other boy. "Feeling better?" he asked, putting his pen down. "I can close the window if you're cold or just don't want it to be open."  
 Sherlock shook his head. "Don't close it."  
 "Of course not."  
 "I like fresh air. Makes me think better." Sherlock looked John in the eyes as he spoke.  
 "Me too. I almost never close the window", John said truthfully.  
 "Good." Sherlock stood up. "My family's gone over the weekend. Can I stay here?" he asked straightforwardly. "I don't want to be home alone, you know, after what has happened." He proceeded to stand in front of the window, his head peeking out of it, scanning the area. The window was big enough for him to easily get through it.  
 John answered without any hesitation. "Of cpurse you can stay here. My sister's at her friend's place, and my parents are working."  
 "I know."  
 "How?"  
 "I just do." The boy shrugged. "Let me just get my things. I'll be back in a few." And with that said John watch as Sherlock climbed out of the window in one swift move and started to run to his house.  
 John was happy. He was happy because he had gotten a new friend, because he had been of help and because Sherlock actually seemed happy about it too.

-–-–-

That night Sherlock slept on a mattress on the floor beside John's bed. For the first time in ages he actually felt safe, because he knew he had someone that was going to protect him whenever he needed it. John had told him -he repeated the words in his head, just as John had said them- 'I'll always be here for you, no matter what. I promise'.  
 Sherlock curled up like a ball under the sheets.  
 "John?" he asked after a while, his voice almost a whisper. "Are you awake?"  
 "Yes?"  
 "Never close the window." Sherlock glanced at the open window.  
 "Why?"  
 "You've told me you'll always be here for me. I can come and go as I want through the window, as long as it's open."  
 "Of course." John smiled in the dark. "I'll never close it again, no matter what. I promise that too."

**And with that the boys fell asleep, luckily unaware of the future and its happenings.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer.  
> I don't own Sherlock or John, nor the chapter titles are mine.  
> I just borrow them a little. :)


	3. But if your heart was full of love...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock eats cereal and deduces John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapter!   
> Sorry for the delay, couldn't find a computer to post it from.  
> Read, enjoy, leave kudos and review! :)

John woke up in -what he thought- was the middle of the night by small sounds that came from the floor. It took him a few moments before he understood that they came from his friend. He realised it was sobs. Small sobs that were subdued in the sheets.  
 "Sherlock?" he whispered, looking upwards. Even though it was so dark he wasn't able to see the ceiling he did so, feeling it was the best. "Are you okay?" He turned in the bed, looking down at the younger boy. He could barely see the silhouette of his, but it was enough. A few moments later the sobs had disappeared and Sherlock's voice broke the silence.  
 "John.." he started, not answering the question the older boy had asked him. He wasn't okay, and he knew that John knew he wasn't. "Will you hold me? I- I had a nightmare."  
John sat up in his bed and heard the boy swallow another sob. His heart was shattering into pieces.  
 "Of course I will." John moved a little, making space for the other boy, leaning his back against the wall. "Come here." He patted at the mattress beside him, his voice soft. Even though the boy was silently crying he moved gracefully, like a cat. As soon as John had gotten his arms around him, tears began to stream down his cheeks. The small body was shivering. The only thing John could do was to embrace the boy and mumble soft words. Words like 'it's okay", and 'I'm here, don't worry'.  
 Soon the sobs had disappeared, but John didn't want to let go of the small boy. He was so fragile and vulnerable. They sat like that a long time. Sherlock leaning his head against the other boy's chest, embraced by his arms.  
 When the sun was rising they both had fallen asleep, comforting each other.

-–-–--

"But you need to eat _something_ ", the older boy insisted.  
Sherlock shook his head. "Really, I'm not hungry." The bowl with milk and cereal in front of him was untouched. He didn't understand why he had to eat. It was boring, and with the time it took him to eat the contents of the bowl he would have been able to do other things, like think.  
 "You need to eat", John said as he put another spoon of milk and cereal in his mouth. "/Really/." He raised his right eyebrow whilst imitating Sherlock's voice.  
 "Fine then", Sherlock mumbled and grabbed his spoon. "But not much. Because I'm not hungry", he prompted.  
A quarter later Sherlock's bowl was empty. After all he'd been quite hungry, and decided that it had been worth the time. He caught John smiling at him, but didn't comment it.  
 "So..?" John's voice broke the silence. "It's Saturday, so that means no school. How should we spend the day?" he asked the boy while taking both their bowls, putting them in the sink.  
 "I have no idea."  
 "Neither do I."  
 "Take a walk? I don't know." The dark haired boy stood up, pushing his chair in under the table.  
 "Good idea. Give me fifteen minutes and I'll be ready", John said before heading into his room again.

-–-–-

Thirteen minutes later John locked the front door to the house. "Beautiful weather", he said, trying to break the tension that lay thick in the air. "Sunshine and everything", he continued, smiling briefly.  
 "Yes. Although I've never understood why the weather matters." The younger boy replied, his voice clear. The sad, crying, insecure boy from the night was completely gone. John didn't know how he did it, but he supposed it was good acting.  
 "Where to go then?" he asked whilst they were walking the street, the sun shining on them from above.  
The boy shrugged. "I have no idea. The park? They have quite nice cafés there too."  
 "Great." John walked in the same pace as Sherlock. Quite fast to be a thirteen year old's, but he easily kept up. He was amazed of whatever his newfound friend said it sounded like he was a hundred years old. It wasn't bad or anything, no. It was a bit strange, although John didn't mind.

-–-–-

They arrived in the park and sat down on the grass under one of the trees, looking at the people that walked past them. In the beginning both of the boys were silent. Sherlock watched as John did and undid his shoelaces. After a while Sherlock told John one thing about each person that passed. One of the many things he was able to deduce. Things like 'she's got a dog' and 'he's cheating on his girlfriend' and 'a three children's father'. John seemed surprised. Maybe he doubted him, but it didn't matter.  
 "Do it with me", John suddenly said. "Tell me three things about me that I haven't told you. Could be interesting." John flashed a smile. Sherlock nodded.  
 "Mm, okay." He fell silent for a while, eyeing the blond. "First off, you have a sister. Second, your parents are planning on moving, although I don't know when, and third, you study hard because you want to become a doctor. Although I'm not sure of what kind." Sherlock smiled, pretty sure he'd been right on all three statements. He hopefully looked at his friend, whose eyes were big.  
 "Brilliant", he exclaimed whilst smiling brightly. Then it looked like something hit him. Like a stone. "Moving? What do you mean?" His voice wasn't as enthusiastic now as it'd been seconds ago.  
 "Yes, moving. It's obvious. Your parents, they're never at home. How everything's perfect, like there's just been a photoshoot. The interior is extremely frugal, although your family has the money to have way more stuff. Your parents are selling the house, John, and you're going to move, but as I said, I don't know when. I believe next month."

**That time Sherlock was terribly wrong.**

Something inside John was gnawing him, but since he wasn't able to put a finger on it he ignored it, and soon it was forgotten.   
 The boys ate lunch at a nearby café. Sherlock didn't want anything, but John convinced him to, and so Sherlock ate a whole portion of pasta carbonara.  
 John was happy, incredibly happy. Every time he made Sherlock laugh it was like he scored points. The boy looked extremely cute when he smiled, and his laughter was -well- it was special, but John thought it was cute.  
 Day turned into afternoon, and the afternoon turned into night. The boys were walking home from the park, both of them smiling.  
 "Had a good time, eh?" John asked, turning slightly to the boy who walked beside him.  
 "Indeed", Sherlock simply replied.  
 They reached the crossroad where they had to part ways and fell silent, both of them knowing the day was to its end. The lamppost threw its dim light over them, making the colours matte. For minutes they just stood there, none of them knowing what to say.   
 Eventually Sherlock cleared his throat. "Just so you know, I really appreciate what you've done for me. Even when you didn't know who I was."  
 John smiled. "Don't worry about it. I guess it was just human instincts. Help each other out, I mean." His gaze trailed over the younger boy, his friend. "Can I hug you? Like a good night-hug?" He nervously catched Sherlock's gaze. Maybe he'd gone too far. He sighed of relief when the boy nodded.  
They embraced each other. Sherlock's slender frame and John's a bit bigger. Although Sherlock was three years younger than John they were almost the same height. It amused John when he thought about it. The younger boy smelt of grass and something John couldn't place. Sweet but at the same time a bit bitter. Like the taste of grapefruit.   
 After a while they let go of each other.  
 "I'll see you tomorrow then? You can come visit my place", Sherlock said, his eyes hopeful.  
 "Of course. I'll be there at ten." John smiled, already looking forward to it.  
 "Goodnight then, John. Keep the window open."  
 "It is and always will be, Sherlock. Goodnight."  
 John stood under the lamppost, watching Sherlock disappear into the dark. Then he turned around and started his short walk home.

**That was the last time John and Sherlock saw other for a very long time.**


	4. ...Could you give it up?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A closed window, two broken hearts and one promise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not responsible for eventual heart shattering. Read at your own risk!

During the short walk home John's happiness once again turned into something else. That feeling he'd had before, that gnawing feeling, it was back. He tried, he really did, to put a finger on what it was and why, but it was impossible.  
  Frustrated he arrived home, the front door already open. He called a 'Hello, I'm home', whilst kicking his shoes off. Then he went straight to his room. The mattress that Sherlock had slept on was gone, John had stuffed it away in the morning before he and Sherlock had left the house.  
  The room was cool, but not cold. The window was still open.  
  He sat down at his desk, but didn't even had the time to open his book and start studying before his father called for him from the kitchen. "John, can you come here for a moment?"   
  John sighed slightly. He loved his parents, but now he just wanted to be with himself. "Coming", he replied, leaving the book open on the desk.  
  When he arrived in the kitchen his whole family sat at the table. Well, his family was only four persons including himself, but it was enough for him.  
  His sister looked angry, more than usual. His parents facial expressions was neutral, and John knew that was never a good thing. He pulled a chair out and sat down on it. "So?"  
  After a while of silence his mother spoke. "We're moving. Tomorrow morning."  
  John's mouth fell open, but he quickly closed it again. The news had hit him hard. He took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. He didn't want to move, not now. Not when he had Sherlock.  
  His father cleaned his throat. "We're moving out of London. Your sister needs it."  
  John knew it was because of her alcohol problems.  
  "Gather your stuff tonight. We're leaving at five."  
  John felt his sight getting blurred by tears. He stormed out of the kitchen and into his room, slamming the door shut. He sank down on his bed and started to cry. Silent tears trickled down his cheeks and down onto the floor, landing with  soft thumps. John was broken.

-–-–-

Sherlock was awake early. He had no idea of when John was going to come over, but he hurried with getting dressed and eating breakfast. The grey jumper John had borrowed him was hung over his chair. He was going to give it back to his friend when they met.  
  Hour after hour passed. He was home alone, so no one told him to do stuff like clean the house or do the dishes. He just waited for John to come over. When the clock turned one he started to doubt his friend was even going to visit him. But he'd promised, hadn't he? Yes he had, and Shelock knew his friend was going to keep that promise.  
  The clock turned two and John still hadn't arrived. The dark haired boy looked out of the window. It was sunshine that day too.  
  The clock turned three and half past three, and no sign of his friend were there to see.  
  Sherlock pulled John's jumper on and left the house, not bothering to lock -he wasn't going to be away for long- and headed to his friend's house, thinking that John maybe still was asleep. He knew many his age slept all day.  
  The walk was short, but not short enough. Something was tugging inside Shelock. Something bad. He didn't know what it was, and he hated it. He arrived to the house and quickly scanned the area. Everything was wrong. The car was gone, the door was locked and the window -his window- was closed. John had promised to keep it open, hadn't he? That could only mean one thing, and Sherlock didn't even want to think about it. He made his way to the window, leaning his forehead against the transparent glass, looking into the room which had been John's. Because now it wasn't, not anymore. The bed had no sheets in it, and all of the boy's personal stuff were gone.  
  The words he'd said to the blond the day before hit him like a punch in the face. 'Your parents are planning on mobing'.  
  He stood there for a long time, just looking at the room. Maybe it was all a joke, maybe John was soon going to walk in and give him one of those smiles he loved so much. Sherlock knew that wasn't going to happen, but still he stood there, waiting for it.  
  It took him a long time before seeing the mark on the window. Well, it wasn't exactly a mark, but a print. A handprint. Sherlock knew that hand. It was John's. He had no idea why it was there, but he believed -no, he knew- that John had done it as a message to him. 'I'm still here, Sherlock', it seemed to say. Sherlock put his hand over it, tears now streaming down his face.  
  Sadness turned into anger, and even though he still was crying he hit the window with his fist. It didn't break, but his fist hurt. "Great.." he muttered. The print from his hand on the window was the only sign that Sherlock left after him when he stormed away, running to the playground. There he hit things, kicked things and yelled at everything. He didn't care that people walked by, why would he?  
  Sherlock had never believed in some kind of higher power, but now it felt like a good idea. He cursed whatever god there was to curse. He couldn't for his life understand why the universe had been so cruel.  
  Eventually the anger ran out of him, leaving him with just sadness. He sat down at the swing he'd sit on so many times before and cried silently.  
  He sat there until darkness fell upon him.

**That was the last time Sherlock was at the playground.**

-–-–-

 They'd been driving for hours now. Once John had liked long car trips with his family, but not anymore. He hadn't said anything since they'd left the house. The knot in his stomach didn't want to leave, but he kind of appreciated it. He liked how it pained him.  
  They had left that morning, him and his family.   
  "Pack down everything of yours, John", his father had told him.  
  John had done exactly that. He'd packed everything of his and stuffed it into the car. Reluctantly he'd closed his window, but he hadn't left his room before putting his palm on the glass, leaving a mark.  
  His parents hadn't allowed him to go say goodbye to his friend. 'We haven't got the time, dear', they'd said.  
  He'd looked around in his room one last time. Then he'd closed the door behind him, knowing he wasn't going to come back.  
  They'd driven past the playground. The playground had been empty except from two kids that had played in the sandbox. No one had been sitting on the swing.  
  Then they had just drived and drived. His parents had tried to make conversation with him, but he hadn't said a single thing. Harry had also been quite, at least he wasn't alone with hating the idea to move.  
  And there he was, John Hamish Watson. Back at square zero. He shed a single tear. "For you, Sherlock", he whispered quietly. "I'll never forget you."


	5. 'Cause what about angels?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock wants to be a pirate and John wants to join the army. Memories gets blurry and Sherlock still doesn't believe in angels.

Sherlock's parents wondered what had happened. Their little boy was completely changed. They didn't force him to anything, not even school, because even though they were his parents they understood that something was wrong.  
 Sometimes they forced him to go outside, just to see the sun, the sky, the clouds and the birds, but that was it. Before they went to work they made him lunch that he could just heat in the oven, but they also teached him how to do simple things like frying eggs or boiling pasta.  
 Mycroft -Sherlock's big brother- was almost never at home, but when he was he accompanied Sherlock, who always was in his room, refusing to go outside. Even though the dark haired boy was thirteen, his brother read to him. He read book after book about pirates and their adventures on the seas. To Mycroft they were just fairy tales that you tell a kid, but for his younger brother they were true stories. Sherlock was amazed of how they fought with swords, knives and guns. How they managed to sail the seven seas and never get lost.  Sherlock wanted to be one of them, to always feel the thrill around him, the excitement but also the fear. But of course that was just a childish dream. He never told anyone about it except Mycroft.  
 The elder brother also learned Sherlock how to read things out of people based on how they looked, smelled and even felt. He called it deductions. Sherlock loved making deductions, it was a challenge for his mind.  
 The loss of John had left an empty hole in Sherlock's chest, but when he was with Mycroft it felt like it was filled, at least for a while.

-–-–-

John didn't know to where they'd moved, and he didn't care. His room was smaller than before, and he studied harder than ever. He wanted to become a doctor, and for that he needed perfect grades.  
 Every day he went to school. He ate and he slept and he studied. His parents had work all the time, and Harry was almost never home. Once every member in the family was at home they always fighted. His father thought John should study more, his mother argued with his father, and Harry hated everything and everyone.  
 John didn't make any new friends, because why would he? He knew that it was only going to end up with one of them leaving the other, and he didn't want that. Not again. Because that was what had happened, wasn't it? He'd left Sherlock all on his own. Was he doing good? Had he found another friend to be with, or was he as broken as himself? John didn't want to know.  
 One night when John was wide awake in his bed -all alone in the house- he heard someone open and close the front door. The steps were familiar, it was his sisters. Silently he padded into the small living room, seeing his sister drop down in the sofa. Even though the room was almost pitch dark he saw that she looked awful. The air around her stank of alcohol. She was drunk. John sighed, that wasn't the first time she'd come home in the middle of the night, all but sober. He put a blanket over her and went back to bed, now able to fall asleep.

-–-–-

Sherlock turned fourteen, everything was still the same. He didn't go to school, but was teached the most important things by Mycroft. His hair had grown back. The dark curls he loved so much were back. It wasn't much of a comfort compared to everything else, but it was something.  
 He grew fond of science, at least chemistry. Now and then he made small experiments in the kitchen, like mixing baking soda with water, making the mixture explode. His parents didn't mind as long as he cleaned up after himself, and he always did.  
 Sherlock turned fifteen and grew out of John's grey jumper he so often had worn. Mycroft visited more rarely than ever, and almost never read to him. Now and then Sherlock walked to the library, borrowing books about pirates. Those were the only times he left the house.  
 The experiments kept going on, although they became more advanced for every day. He always cleaned up after him, because he didn't want to disappoint his parents.  
 He thought of John every day, but the memory of him felt more like a dream than ever. He had started to doubt. What if John hadn't been real? Just a fantasy. But then again he had the grey jumper which was completely real. An angel, that was what John had been. Sherlock didn't believe in angels, at least not the ones with wings, dressed in white shrouds who were sent from heaven, but maybe human angels existed. Maybe John had been one of them? He didn't believe it, but he wanted to. Every time he thought of the blond boy his heart ached.

-–-–-–

John graduated secondary school with top grades and searched into university with medical orientation. Luckily he got a place, and was happy to move away from home. Well, he couldn't call it home. Even if he'd lived there for two years it was never going to be home for him. Home is where the heart is, and his heart had been left behind two years ago. His heart was always going to be with Sherlock.  
 The day he left the house wasn't sad at all. He was relived. He said goodbye to his father before his mother drove him to campus. John had a driver's license but didn't own a car. He never got to say a proper goodbye to Harry.

-–-–-

The day Sherlock turned eighteen he ran way from home. Not because he hated it or his family, but because he needed change. He couldn't be stuck there for the rest of his life. He'd told Mycroft about it when he'd last visited, and he left a note to his parents. A note that told them to not worry and how much he loved them.  
 Sherlock hitchhiked in to the central of London. He had no plans at all, but he knew Mycroft was going to provide him with money and roof over his head if it got too tough.  
 It stated out good. He got a small room in a flat. It didn't cost much, and he was always able to pay the rent. The housekeeper was a nice young woman called Katrina. She didn't interfere in Sherlock's life more than she had to (like; 'Dont forget next week it's time to pay for the room', and 'never forget to lock if you're home late, please'). Sherlock appreciated her for that.  
 One night Sherlock was out late. He'd told Katrina to lock the door, because he wasn't going to be home until early the next day.

**That was when everything went wrong.**

-–-–-

John shared room with another boy. At the beginning he sometimes asked John if he wanted to follow him and his friends to to the pub. John always neglected, so by the time his roommate stopped asking.  
 He almost never thought of his parents. He'd loved them, but that was before. He'd been so young, and they'd taken everything away from him. They both were in his past.  
 Sometimes when he smelled the scent of alcohol he wondered about Harry and what had became of her. He had no clue. He'd lost the contact with her and his parents. They never visited or wrote to him, and he never visited or wrote to them, it was simple as that.  
 John had thoughts of joining the army, as an army doctor of course. He studied hard and by the end of the semester he had top grades in every subject.  
 Now and then he thought of Sherlock, but the memory of him was a big blur. He'd unwillingly and unconsciously pushed the few happy memories away because they hurt too much.  After another pair of months and a Christmas break the memory of the younger boy he'd loved so much was gone, hidden and buried deep inside his mind.  
Sometimes when he catched a pair of intense blue and green eyes looking at him it felt like he should remember something, or someone, but the feeling was gone as quickly as it had come.  
 **John was more alone than ever.**


	6. They will come, they will go make us special.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pirate stories becomes fairytales and John joins the army.

That night Sherlock went to the pub. When he returned home -half drunk and dizzy- there were police cars outside and he immediately came to his right senses. He deduced the scene, although it took him a bit longer than it used to -side effects of alcohol-.  
 Katrina was dead, murdered in her own bed.  
 He felt a strange feeling inside of him, but pushed it away since it came with more than just a meaningless feeling. He'd liked Katrina very much, but she was just a drop of water in the sea. She hadn't meant _that_ much to him.  
 He left the crime scene and his small room without even twitching an eye and an hour later he was in another part of London where no one knew who he was or from where he came. He hadn't had much of personal stuff in that small room, just a few clothes, books and an old grey jumper which he didn't even know why he had. It was too small for him anyway. He didn't need those things anymore.He hadn't been the one to murder Katrina, but he needed a new start. No one could know about what he was able to, because if they knew they were going to use him. At least that was what he thought.  
 He hadn't heard from Mycroft in a long time. After a while he didn't have any money left, and Mycroft -who'd promised Sherlock to help him- did not hold his promise. Still he had hope, but for each day that went on he lost a little trust to his bigger brother, the one who he'd come to trust, the one who had teached him how to deduce things and had read pirate stories for him. He wasn't a pirate, and he knew it. Pirates were just childish. /Fairytales.

**That was when Sherlock stopped believing silly fairytales.**

-–-–-

John graduated with top grades. The time between his graduation and to when he joined the army was all a blur. He studied hard and had a job at the side so he didn't have to be in debt to anyone when it came to money.  
 The memory of the little boy he once had been so close to -if only for a few days- was still pushed away and hidden deep in his mind.  
 Joining the army was a relief. He had something that occupied his mind all the time. It always happened something around him. Rifles that fired and men that shouted and screamed. In some strange way the noise made him calm.  
 One day someone named M. Holmes visited. John didn't pay much attention on him since the /very important man from the British government/ wasn't his concern. Still the name sent strange chills up his spines, although the feeling disappeared as soon as it had come. He knew the important man hadn't payed any attention to him. He was just a simple army doctor ,and he liked that.

**That was why John didn't understand -until a long time later- that the man was his friend's brother.**

-–-–-

Sherlock still didn't have any contact with his bigger brother. He missed him, of course he did, but his brain and intelligent mind was telling him to push the human feeling of loss away. Human error, that was what he called the feel of loss. He was thinner than ever, and the drugs he was taking -well- he didn't even know himself what it was, only that it made his mind blunt. It made him forget the painful memories that sometimes came to him.  
 Everything he once had owned was gone. He'd growned up and didn't believe the childish fairytales he once had loved. Pirates were just an old memory, a distant one, just as the swingset he sometimes remembered he'd sat on.  
 He had good days and bad days. Good days were the ones when he remembered who he was and bad days were worse, much worse.  
 He didn't have any money to pay for the drugs, still he got hold of them. It was in dark alleys on his knees in front of another man, that was always the deal. At the beginning he always choked on the other man's member, but after a while he learned how to control it. He learned that they wanted him passive, to just receive. They had their hands buried in his dark curls or his neck, telling him that he was a real slut. He didn't listen to the words, they were unimportant to him. He just wanted the drugs.  
 Sometimes he had ceiling over his head, sometimes not. When he saw his reflection in a mirror he just turned his back. Something inside him told him that what he was doing was wrong, but the other part -the one with control, the one that liked the drugs- ignored it.  
It went on like that for years. No one came to rescue him, and the thought of that he had a bigger brother somewhere out in the big wide world was extremely distant and abstract.  
 One day it went too far. As so many times before he took an overdose, but this time it was a bigger one, too much. he didn't even notice, he just disappeared from the world. Sherlock thought he'd had control over it, but that wasn't the case.

**That was the last time Sherlock overdosed.**

-–-–-

It was a normal day, just as normal as it can be when you're in the army. John for once was out at the battlefield instead of the tent a hundred meters away he usually was placed in.  
 Everything started out good and went as planned, but then it went wrong. The enemy came from the wrong direction, people were harmed and he and the other medics had a lot to do. In the middle of the riot he was shot. He didn't even notice it until he saw the blood streaming down his arm which source was his own shoulder. The people around him was shouting 'man down, man down', but he tried to keep insisting that it didn't matter, that his life wasn't important in comparison to the others he could help. No one listened. When he finally accepted that he was going to die everything around him seemed to slow down. He reached out for someone who wasn't there, someone he could hold. His last thought was 'Please God let me live'.  
 He was floating, death felt good. It was peaceful and nothing bothered him. Then it changed. It felt like he was on fire. He was burning, his shoulder burnt most of all. Pain, everything was pain. All of sudden death wasn't peaceful, it was horrible.  
 When he eventually opened his eyes he was lying on a bunk with the familiar sight of a tent ceiling over him. He sighed. After all he wasn't dead.


	7. Don't give me up.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock starts solving cases and John curses his leg.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for not having posted in like a year. Can I blame school? I really can't. Anyways, here's the continuation. I've only read it through one time, apologies, but I'm a lazy arse.  
> This chapter is quite boring, but it's necessary.  
> I still don't own any of the characters, I just borrow them! I am not making any money out of this.

Sherlock woke up, his body was aching. He slowly moved his fingers, and then his wrists. At least he was able to move, that was good signs. He wasn't able to identify the room he was in. The room was clinical white and blue. Blue was supposed to be calming. Maybe it was working. At least Sherlock wasn't panicking. Someone was sitting at the side of the bed.  
 "You finally wake up, brother dear", an unfamiliar -yet very familiar- voice said. Sherlock was unable to place it.  
 "Who are you?" the dark haired asked. It was meant to be said in a snapping tone, but it just came out as a croak. Sherlock banned himself for it.   
 "I'm sure you know who I am. I taught you about pirates, I taught you how to deduce things, Sherlock dear." The voice was sweet as honey, yet edged.  
 The younger man sighed. "Mycroft. So you've decided to turn up, after all." He slowly sat up against the wall, grinning badly from the pain. "You abandoned me, you left me." Sherlock's eyes were full of anger, but also of betrayal and hurt.  
 Mycroft cleared his throat, his hand clenching the umbrella he was holding. _An umbrella_. Sherlock snorted, since when was his brother an umbrella man?  
 "I didn't _leave_ you, Sherlock. I just let you take care of yourself." The elder brother's tone was cold as ice.  
 Sherlock just continued glaring at him. He glared for minutes, refusing to say anything. Finally his bigger brother left and he was alone in the room. With a sigh he fell asleep again, half sitting against the wall, half laying in the bed.

-–-–-

John's wound was all stitched up, but he was not allowed to work, but neither was he allowed to go home, and lucky was that, because he didn't have a home. He'd given everything up for the army, and just look at where that had taken him.  
 He'd joined early and been there for years, taking care of the injured. He had a long time ago lost count of how long he'd been there. Ten years? Fifteen? Twenty? He didn't know. He wanted to fight, but his injury prevented him from it. It wasn't just the shoulder, it was also his leg. His _godamn_ leg which nowadays had a limp. He hated not being able to do anything.

-–-–-

The room Sherlock was staying in had a small window from which he was able to see a garden from. It was summer, but he was never let outside. He knew Mycroft was watching him. There were hidden cameras in the room, but Sherlock hadn't bothered to remove them.  
 Mycroft visited now and then. Sometimes he visited multiple times on a day, sometimes just once in a week.  
 He was given food, of course. Just how much he needed, plus a little extra. Of course Mycroft wanted him to not be just skin and bones.  
 One day his brother brought a man with him called Greg Lestrade. "Greg is a detective inspector at Scotland Yard", was the first thing Mycroft had told him about the stranger. Sherlock wasn't stupid, he knew Mycroft liked the grey haired man, and that the man liked his brother back. To Sherlock it was ridiculous. It was _feelings_ , but he knew better than to tell his brother about it. Sherlock had nothing against Lestrade, or Greg as the man himself preferred to be called.  
 One time Greg came alone, offering Sherlock to follow him to a crime scene, because he'd heard from somewhere that Sherlock was smart. Sherlock wasn't stupid. He knew Mycroft had told Greg to ask him, but still he followed the detective inspector to the crime scene. His brain was slow, oh so slow, but he still managed to figure out who the murder was. Greg seemed impressed, and Sherlock liked it. He liked solving the puzzle.  
 Mycroft's visits became more irregular than they'd been in the beginning. Greg told him that he was away. Sherlock knew it was true.  
 Greg continued taking him to crime scenes with the explanation that he needed help -which was partly true-, but Sherlock knew that it was Mycroft's orders. The way Greg always talked about Mycroft made Sherlock feel sick. Not because it was his brother -no- but because it sounded so familiar, yet so strange. The tone Greg always had when he talked about Mycroft. How they _cared_  about each other.  
 Years passed by, even though Sherlock didn't notice it both Greg and Mycroft did.   
 Sometimes when Greg hadn't visited in a long time Sherlock just lay in the bed, staring at the ceiling. Images flashed in front of his eyes. Pirates, experiments. Sometimes his parents. He missed those things, yes he did, but they were far behind him. Although now and then he saw a grey jumper, or a pair of kind eyes belonging to a boy with sandy blond hair. That image always made him sad, although he didn't know why.

-–-–-

"You're going home John."  
 The sentence hit him like a bullet. No, not like a bullet. Like a punch inte face, and then the stomach. He didn't believe what he was hearing. For thirty seconds he just stared at his commander. "I am what?"  
 "You're going home", his commander repeated, his voice neutral, _professional_. "We're sending you home. You've been here for years, unable to do nothing. I'm sorry John, but you're leaving tomorrow."  
 John was unable to melt it. Home? He didn't have a home. Somewhere back in his mind he thought he was going to die. He'd always thought he was going to die on the battlefield, that he never was going to be forced to return back to England, to old memories, memories that hurt so much. A boy with soft, black curls he hadn't been able to help.

-–-–-

"It's been five years now." Mycroft was visiting Sherlock. It had been a year since the last visit. "I believe I can let you out of here." He gestured at the room they were in, the same he'd woken up in years ago, the same he'd been living in for forever. "But I'll still be watching you, Sherlock. After all I'm concerned about you."  
 Sherlock snorted. "So that is why you visit once a year and have your _boyfriend_  watch over me when you're gone?"  
 Mycroft didn't even flinch. Not at the statement of Greg being his boyfriend, and nor at the other statements.  
 "You'll still be solving cases with Greg. That's the deal. You help him with his cases and you can have a normal life, at least as normal as it can for you. You refuse to follow him to crime scenes, and I'll have you sent back here. Do you understand, brother dear?" Mycroft was unconsciously tilting his head. Sherlock tried to not look to amused.  
 "Of course I do." he replied. "But only if it's an interesting one, now let me go."

-–-–-

"How's your blog going?"  
John cleared his throat. "Yeah, good." The former army doctor sighed. He strongly disapproved of his therapy sessions, but they were necessary, at least they said so. The ones whom had sent him back.  
 He was back in London, back on square one. No friends, almost no money. An army pension wasn't much to live on. His damn leg hadn't gotten any better.  
 "You haven't written a word, have you?" His therapist smiled at him. He weakly returned it, glancing at the notepad in her lap.  
 "You just wrote 'still has trust issues'", he commented, making a try in changing the subject.  
 "And you read my writing upside down. Do you see what I mean?"   
 John smiled again, or at least he tried. He had nothing against his therapist, just against the sessions. He had trust issues, he always had, especially since when- no. He couldn't think about it. The memories were so diffuse, but they still were there, hidden, buried deep.   
 "John, you’re a soldier, and it’s gonna take you a while to adjust to civilian life; and writing a blog about everything that happens to you will honestly help you", she tried. She always did, she always wanted him to feel better. But that was her job, to help people like him to feel better.  
 John sighed again. "Nothing happens to me."

_He didn't know how wrong he was._

**Author's Note:**

> What did you think?  
> Good? Leave a kudo!  
> Not good? Leave a comment!
> 
> Hope you like it so far.  
> Love.


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